The Ark tl-1

by Boyd Morrison

  The trucks drove around the corner and out of sight.

  Dozens of official-looking cars were parked in a line next to the building, meaning that Cutter and Simkins would be just two more worker bees and would go unnoticed amidst the hubbub.

  They got out and headed toward a door guarded by two men in police uniforms. The shirts were emblazoned with the logo of the Maricopa County sheriff’s department. Each of the them had an AR-15 automatic weapon at his side.

  The only aspect of the mission that Cutter didn’t like was that they’d had to leave their own weapons behind. If anyone spotted NTSB investigators carrying pistols, inconvenient questions would be raised. And in this heat, heavy coats would have been out of place. The light jackets they wore would have bulged from any kind of gun. Therefore, he and Simkins were unarmed.

  He didn’t expect the need for weapons. The mission was to find the suitcase and smuggle it out before it could be identified as the source of the bioweapon used on Hayden’s plane. His plan was to use his authority as a temporary NTSB investigator on loan from the Justice Department specifically for this case to remove the luggage from the site for further analysis.

  He sized up the deputies, who looked bored with the guard duty. If he did end up needing weapons, he knew exactly where to get them.

  Cutter and Simkins flashed their IDs again, and the deputies let them pass. Cutter took off his sunglasses and let his eyes adjust to the dark interior.

  The massive doors at the opposite end of the hangar were just closing, having already let the two trucks through. The semis idled at the far end as they awaited instructions about where to unload.

  At least 75 people clustered at various points around the vast space. A pre-fabricated frame the size of an airplane fuselage was being assembled in the center of the hangar. Several pieces of the 737 wreckage were already hanging from it. The other pieces were carefully laid on the floor next to it, waiting for inspection.

  The contents of the plane — seats, luggage, clothing, furniture — were all neatly placed in rows along the opposite wall. Cutter had accessed the G-Tag system through the NTSB’s computer system, courtesy of the two NTSB investigators that were now lying dead in a Phoenix motel room. After a search of the G-Tag inventory, he’d found a digital photo of the steel-lined suitcase containing the device. It was still intact and on a truck bound for the TEC, scheduled to be delivered this morning. It would be found in this area.

  “You take the opposite end,” Cutter said to Simkins, “and work your way towards me. Try not to talk to anyone. If you spot the suitcase, don’t touch it. Come find me, and then we’ll look for an opportunity to remove it.”

  “What if it’s not here?” Simkins asked.

  “Then we wait for the next truck.” He silently congratulated himself. This was going to be much easier than combing the desert looking for a single piece of luggage. Let the feds do the hard work, and he would simply take it off their hands here.

  Cutter turned when he heard the beep of the semi backing up. At the end of the row of plane contents a hundred feet away, a black man in a tight-fitting T-shirt that was stretched over a muscular torso held up his hand. The truck stopped, and the man, who was clearly the leader, instructed two others to open the rear doors. A group of workers got in a line and began to gingerly hand out the pieces in bucket-brigade fashion, while the leader yelled instructions to them.

  The suitcase might have been in that shipment, but the truck’s contents weren’t what Cutter was paying attention to. Instead, he peered at the black man more intently. The voice. It was unmistakable. Of course, he had heard it on TV, when he was a wrestler, but that wasn’t the reason Cutter tuned out all the other noises coming from the building and focused on him.

  The man turned around, and Cutter felt the old hatred flow through him. He had served with the man in the Rangers. Grant Westfield — electrical engineer, ex-pro wrestler The Burn, and former Special Forces soldier — was the reason Cutter no longer served the military with distinction, why he was reduced to what he was now.

  Cutter turned away to avoid being noticed. There was no way Westfield would be expecting to see him here, but with him in charge of this operation, the new development would significantly alter Cutter’s plans.

  All of sudden, his mission wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought it would be.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Locke watched the gray Seattle skyline as he padded through his fifth mile on the treadmill. He had set up the exercise room so that he could either catch up on his reading or simply enjoy the view while he worked out. The clouds had rolled back over Puget Sound during the night, foreshadowing the storm to come, but the Cascades were still visible. If there weren’t the threat that someone was still trying to kill him, he would have gone out for a jog to Discovery Park.

  His internal clock had woken him up by seven AM, so he had already finished some paperwork and lifted weights before starting his run. Much of his field work was rigorous, so staying in shape was important to his job. Plus it gave him a respite to think. He’d had a dream about Dilara Kenner, and although he couldn’t remember it clearly, he knew it wasn’t entirely wholesome. That kiss on the cheek hadn’t been much, but he could tell there was a spark that passed between them.

  “Nice view,” said a sleepy voice from behind him.

  Locke didn’t startle easily, but he wasn’t used to having someone in his house. His head whipped around, and he saw Dilara leaning in the doorway. He struggled to keep his eyes from bugging out at the sight of her still dressed in his T-shirt. It clung to her in all the right places and ended mid-thigh, revealing toned legs. He let his eyes linger for a moment and then turned back to the window. He didn’t sense that she was making a double entendre on purpose, so he suppressed a smile.

  “It certainly is.” He tapped on the treadmill’s control panel, and it ground to a halt. He used the towel hanging on the bar to wipe his forehead, and he suddenly realized that his tank top and shorts were soaked.

  “Coffee?” Dilara said.

  “On the counter. Breakfast?”

  “I’m not a breakfast person. I’m also usually up a lot earlier than this. All the time zone changes must have caught up with me.”

  “I already ate. You have your coffee while I shower. When you’re ready, we’ll head to the airport. Oh, and I had someone from my office stop by that store you liked to get you a few things. They’re by the front door in a new bag for you.”

  Dilara retrieved the bag and said, “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  “I try to take care of my guests,” he said and retreated to the shower.

  Once they were both dressed, they threw their bags in the Porsche SUV, and Locke backed out of the garage. Two new bodyguards, who had called in earlier to confirm that they were legitimate, waved to Locke and paced the Porsche from behind.

  “Mind if I put on some music?” Locke asked.

  He switched on the satellite radio, already tuned to a classic rock station. AC/DC’s Back in Black thumped from the speakers.

  “Let me know if it’s too loud.”

  “A little different from the Vivaldi.”

  “You have to listen to rock when you drive a Porsche.”

  The trip to Boeing Field took 20 minutes, and Locke waved off the bodyguards once they were through the airport gates and safely at Gordian’s ramp.

  The Gulfstream was already fueled and ready to go for their three-hour hop down to Phoenix. Locke took their bags and strode toward the plane.

  He threw their bags in the back. Then he went outside and did a thorough pre-flight check of every system. He didn’t think they’d try another bomb on the plane, but he wanted to check anyway.

  Satisfied that the jet was in perfect operating condition, he reboarded. After he closed the cabin door, he headed for the cockpit.

  “You want to sit with me?” he asked Dilara, who had already taken a seat in the passenger cabin.

  He saw the surp
rised look he expected.

  “You’re the pilot?” she asked.

  “I’ve taken a couple of lessons.” Her look deepened into concern, and he laughed. “I have 300 hours in this model and over 2000 hours total. We’ll be fine.”

  She shook her head and took a seat in the right-hand chair. “You’re a busy guy.”

  “I get bored easily. Sitting around ain’t my thing. I’m a doer — working, playing with my cars, racing, flying. Anything that gets me out of the house.”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “I’ve got a lousy singing voice. Just ask Grant when we get down to the TEC. One time he took me to a karaoke bar, and since then he hasn’t been able to listen to My Way without laughing uncontrollably. Said I made Bob Dylan sound like Pavarotti.”

  “And what does Grant think of you as a pilot?”

  “Oh, he thinks I’m a way better pilot than Pavarotti,” Locke said with a grin.

  He spooled up the engines, and within minutes they had lifted off and were winging their way to Phoenix.

  * * *

  Cutter and Simkins had been at the hangar for almost three hours now, and trucks had been steadily arriving with wreckage, but they still hadn’t seen the suitcase. Cutter maintained a discreet distance from Grant Westfield, and whenever he saw Westfield heading in his direction, he casually walked out of his way.

  Simkins had been able to check the areas nearer to Westfield, but no luck yet. Still, Cutter had to assume the suitcase would eventually turn up. If the investigators opened it and saw the device inside, they would immediately know it was something that didn’t belong on the plane, and it would be taken to even tighter security. Cutter would never be able to retrieve it after that. He needed to get it back before that happened.

  Another truck pulled in, and the bucket brigade repeated. Cutter watched from behind a frame piece that hadn’t been installed yet. Then he saw it. The green case he had put on the plane three days ago. It had survived, and it looked intact. Good. That would make it easier to remove.

  His worry now was that bluffing his way out of the hangar with the suitcase wouldn’t work if removal of anything required Westfield’s approval. And there was no way Cutter could bluff past him. He’d recognize Cutter instantly and know something was wrong. Simkins could try it, but if anything seemed suspicious, the deputies would remember that he and Cutter had come in together and would search out Cutter.

  He needed a diversion. Something inside the hangar that would distract everyone long enough for him to snatch the suitcase and leave.

  Then he realized what he needed was right in front of him. As he was working through the logistics in his mind, he could hear a landing jet roar past on the runway outside.

  * * *

  The flight to the TEC had gone smoothly. Locke taxied over to hangar two and left the Gulfstream in the hands of Gordian’s maintenance crew.

  The TEC looked like it was experiencing a typically busy day. In addition to the airplane reconstruction going on in hangar three, at the track pit area he could see several people hunched over a duplicate of the all-electric Tesla roadster that he had driven with Dilara the day before. A hundred yards from it was its exact opposite: the Liebherr dump truck. It looked like they were in the final preparations before putting it through its paces.

  Locke called Grant’s cell phone and found out he was still organizing the enormous pile of wreckage being delivered to hangar three. Locke and Dilara walked over to the building to join him.

  Locke flashed his ID card at the guards and vouched for Dilara. He was one of only a handful of people who could get someone in when that person didn’t have an ID.

  When they got inside, he could see that they’d been making good progress. With the unprecedented manpower Gordian had mobilized, they had been able to gather at least 40 percent of the wreckage already.

  He picked out Grant supervising the unloading of a semi. Grant waved them over and continued barking at the crew. Dozens of people pored over the wreckage, looking for anything unusual. Another truck was already waiting to be unloaded. Locke hoped the fast pace would yield some clues soon.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” he said to Grant.

  “I’m going for that jigsaw puzzle feel that’s so contemporary,” Grant said.

  “With a bit of a Lego vibe.”

  “It’s the latest fad at all the accident reconstructions.”

  “Frank Gehry would be proud. I take it that it’s going well?”

  “Not bad considering I have the NTSB all over my butt for moving this stuff so quickly. But everything is tagged and photographed properly. It just meant paying overtime for 300 people to do it.”

  “It’s worth it, given the stakes.” He told Grant about the connection with Project Whirlwind, and Dilara’s theory that it might represent a second ark.

  “Then I’m glad I twisted some arms,” Grant said. “We’ve got four more trucks coming in, and then I’ll shift to sorting through this junk.”

  “What can we do to help?” Dilara asked. She was obviously antsy and looking to contribute.

  “If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, you can get some gloves on and give us a hand getting these trucks unloaded.”

  She and Locke got into line in the bucket brigade and handed debris out to workers who placed them into distinct piles.

  They were in a rhythm and had the truck half-unloaded, when it abruptly lurched forward. It looked like someone had popped the clutch. Then it lurched again and took off in gear. Locke, who was standing behind the trailer, watched as the people standing in the back, including Dilara, were thrown to the floor.

  “What the hell!” Grant yelled. “Stop!”

  Whoever was in the cab couldn’t hear him, and the semi slowly gained speed, heading for the trailer of the idling truck in front of it. If it gathered enough speed, it would rip right through, destroying potential evidence.

  Locke and Grant sprinted around to the driver’s side of the cab. Locke jumped up on the sideboard, just before the truck was going too fast to reach it. He tried the handle, but it was locked and the window rolled up. The cab was empty.

  He looked through the window and saw why the truck was moving. Something was jammed into the accelerator.

  The semi was fast approaching the trailer. Locke reached into his pocket and retrieved his Leatherman. He looked away and swung the heavy steel tool at the window.

  It exploded inward. Locke unlocked the door and pulled it open. He kicked the object away from the accelerator and stomped on the brake. The semi stopped just two feet short of the other truck’s trailer.

  Grant came to a stop next to the cab.

  “What in God’s name is going on? Whoever is in there is fired!”

  “The cab’s empty,” Locke said.

  He picked up the object that had been mashed against the pedal. A length of wing strut from the crashed 737.

  “Someone did this on purpose,” Locke said, waving the wreckage at Grant and leaping to the ground. He looked back and saw Dilara round the corner.

  “You okay?” Locke yelled. Then he added, “Everyone okay?”

  She nodded. “We’re fine!”

  Grant’s voice boomed. “I want to know who did this, and I want to know right now!” The hangar became dead quiet.

  His walkie-talkie interrupted the silence. “Mr. Westfield?”

  Grant yanked the walkie-talkie from his belt. “What?”

  “This is Deputy Williams. I know you said nothing should be removed from the hangar, but these guys from the NTSB…” The voice abruptly cut off.

  “Who was that?” Locke asked.

  “One of the deputies guarding the front entrance to the hangar.”

  They looked at each other and suddenly realized what was happening. Someone had deliberately caused a distraction so they could smuggle something out of the building.

  “Come on,” Locke said and ran toward the far entrance. He and
Grant arrived to find both deputies lying on the ground. Locke bent down to take their pulses, but they were dead. Their necks were expertly broken. The men had been ambushed. They were also missing their automatic weapons. Locke was furious. These men were killed on his territory.

  Grant was just as mad as Locke was. He got on the radio as he threw the keys to his car to Locke. “This is Grant Westfield. Put the TEC on immediate lock down. No one goes in or out. Is that understood? We have subjects on the move who are armed and dangerous. Gamma protocols are in effect.” That meant if anyone tried to ram the gates, the guards were authorized to shoot first and ask questions later.

  They jumped into the Jeep, and Locke shifted it into drive. Whoever had killed the deputies was speeding away in a sedan about 200 yards ahead. Two security vehicles were heading toward them, so the sedan veered off and skidded to a stop next to the Liebherr dump truck. They must have realized that getting back through Gordian’s massive gates would have been futile and were making a last stand at the truck.

  The Gordian workers around the truck scattered when they saw the two men jump out with the machine guns spraying bullets into the air.

  The gunmen climbed the left-side stairs of the truck, and when they reached the top, they sent two Gordian workers in the cab tumbling down those same stairs. Locke suddenly understood what the intruders’ plan was.

  For such a huge machine, the Liebherr was surprisingly easy to drive. Anyone who could start a normal truck and get it into gear would be able to drive the Liebherr. And that’s just what they did. The massive truck’s two 16-cylinder diesels roared to life as the two security vehicles came to a stop in front of it and their occupants jumped out, aiming pistols from behind the open car doors.